Of Love and Memory
by M. Carwright
Summary: Aramis's first memory of his mother was of the flowers in her hair. Three vignettes framed by a flower. Becomes a slight tag to S1:Ep4 'The Good Soldier' -Complete
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** A series of vignettes framed by a flower. Linguam, these are for you.

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Of Love and Memory

Aramis's first memory of his mother was of the flowers in her hair. As a child he didn't consider it. It was always just something that defined her. They weren't always the same flowers, but quite often they were simple white daisies and, thinking back, he would remember the white complimented her complexion the best.

As he grew older, he would watch her set out in the morning to pick them from the field and pin them behind her ear amidst her dark locks. When he would set aside the childhood dream of being treated like a man and sneak a hug, he would draw in a breath of soft floral scent and it became extra arms for her embrace.

In the winter when there were no flowers to collect, he never questioned that she became sad and pensive. And when he was old enough to earn coin from his father, Aramis walked three hours into Paris one winter to buy a single flower from a merchant who claimed to have sailed all the way from Morocco. When he returned with his gift, his brothers thrashed him twice, once each, and his father beat him blue for disappearing, but all he had eyes for was the light kindling in his mother's tear-filled eyes at the wilted flower he'd set in her hair.

When his mother died, he had thought he was the only one who knew to line her grave with flowers, but his father surprised him by setting a flower of his own over the carpet of daisies. The flower was deep red with petals that burst about it as if it were perpetually in a state of unfolding; the dark red reminded Aramis of blood, as if his father had set about to cover Aramis's love with reality.

He was angry when he asked his father what kind of flower it was. He had never seen it grow in the fields around their home and likewise he had never seen it in his mother's hair. His father's answer was clipped, but he didn't rebuke his son's tone.

"It is a Spanish flower. A carnation. A flower from her home." And that was all he said as he turned away from the gravesite.

Every winter after that, Aramis left a flower at her grave until he was a man married to war, and then he would come at the anniversary of her death. And then not even that, after his brother inherited the land. Instead, he found himself buying a flower for his windowsill when the opportunity presented itself. In the summer months, when his role as a musketeer required his services beyond the walls of Paris, he would cast his gaze across fields of flowers and feel the echoes of home.

TMTMTM

It was Porthos who first began to suspect that flowers held a certain sway over his friend. The revelation was slow and natural, born of time shared and flowers left on windowsills.

He held his peace on the matter after his first advance of teasing earned a riposte (a reaction so vital to Aramis's survival that it was second nature) and an undercurrent of quiet melancholy. Aramis's laughter was light, but the smiles didn't reach his eyes for the rest of the day.

Porthos resigned himself to waiting for his answers.

On a mission that took them through a provincial town, a young girl took a fancy to Aramis as he rode atop his horse in the front of a band of musketeers like a classic knight in tales of chivalry and honor. She darted onto the street and breathlessly reached up to hand him a simple white daisy. He took the gift on impulse, his head tilting his surprise. The girl reddened and danced away, giggling as her friends folded her back into their flock.

Aramis stared at the flower, his eyes, which normally darted with alertness, were rooted in place as if a feeling and a thought that had long been denied was rushing back to him.

Athos glanced at Porthos, sensing the significance but wondering at the cause. Porthos frowned in answer, not knowing either. Athos echoed the frown and watched their friend with a measure of concern and contemplation. Aramis continued ahead, paying no mind to the busy street or the mission set before them and Porthos decided it was time he asked his questions if only so that Athos wasn't tempted to pry it out by force later for the good of their mission.

In the heat of the dry summer day, they stopped at a creek to water the horses and Porthos joined Aramis at the bank where the man was rubbing cold water across the back of his neck.

"So what was that about?" Porthos tipped his chin at the flower that had found its way through the top knot of Aramis's coat.

Aramis grinned, "I'm sorry Porthos. I can't help it if I'm better looking than you."

"I'm serious 'Mis."

"It's just a flower."

"No it ain't. It means somethin'. What does it mean?"

Aramis glanced at him, furrowed his brow, then glanced away.

Porthos wasn't sure he was going to get an answer and then, "My mother wore these in her hair."

"What, daisies?"

"Sometimes other flowers, but everyday she would pick something fresh from the fields. I don't ever remember a time when she didn't, except of course during winter, but she never did well in winter."

Porthos stared at his friend, realising that for all their shared memories Aramis had never once spoken of his mother.

Aramis had gone back to twisting the flower in his fingers. "It's strange to think that it's been so long since I thought of her. I guess this small token just… reminded me is all. But no matter, that was long ago now." He leaned forward and set the white flower into the stream. It spiralled away on the current, seeming to draw Aramis's melancholy with it. He turned back to Porthos with humor glinting in his eyes.

"You know, if we found you a wig, I bet you'd get just as many flowers yourself."

"Why you…" Porthos growled. He reached out and shoved Aramis into the creek. Water splashed everywhere as the marksman let out an undignified yelp. Porthos roared with laughter until Aramis swept an armload of cold water across his face.

Porthos leapt up, intending to wrestle Aramis into full submersion, but the marksman was faster to his feet, grabbing a fistful of Porthos's sleeve and using his momentum against him to lurch back onto dry land and effectively swapping their places.

Now knee-deep in water, Porthos growled at his friend.

Aramis bolted – laughter trailing behind him like the wake on a ship.


	2. Chapter 2

TMTMTM

The first time Porthos realised that flowers could be more than just bitter memories they were working an escort mission that had crumbled to disaster.

The ambush came late in the morning, the Spanish envoy's carriage surrounded by a mob of angry citizens who were opposed to the idea of peace between the long established enemies of France and Spain. The three of them fought to defend the carriage against men barely armed with tools and candlesticks. Bad timing had the only assailant carrying a pistol fire at the carriage window at the same moment that Aramis stepped up to defend it.

The bullet caught the marksman in the chest and he fell to the ground, clearing the crowd with his fall. It was Porthos's roar that scattered them completely and they melted away in the face of murdering a musketeer.

Porthos rushed to his friend's side, gathering him in his arms. Expecting to find him dead.

Aramis gasped as he was lifted off the cobblestones, his frame shaking on coughs as Porthos cradled him to his chest.

Athos joined them, the blue of his gaze turned to storm. "Aramis?" he queried.

Aramis struggled with another breath. "Here," he managed.

Athos pried away Porthos's hand to assess the wound beneath, pressing the fabric of Aramis's coat to see into the wound that had opened a little to the right but square on the chest.

"It doesn't look deep. Can you breathe?"

"Ahhsk me… later," Aramis choked, arching in Porthos's grip.

Porthos waited for more coughing, worried for damaged lungs. His friend's breathing was indeed ragged, but it seemed the ball had lodged between his ribs without going through. It should have killed him outright instead – perhaps the shot had been poorly packed. Porthos's relief was tempered by the blood flowing from the wound as it ran down Aramis's chest to soak into the blue sash around his waist.

"We need to tend this. I'll fetch the envoy, wait here a moment. We're going to that house there." Athos pointed to the nearest doorstep.

Porthos clung to Aramis, muttering nonsense in his ear as his friend trembled and blinked tears from his eyes.

Athos prompted the envoy out of the carriage and ushered the man to the door, eyes alert for lingering threats. The door of the two-story building opened and Athos moved his shoulder into the gap, the stern nature of his tone reaching Porthos's ears but not the words themselves.

Athos waved to signal their readiness and Porthos lifted Aramis into his arms like he would a child. Aramis groaned, his head falling to Porthos's chest, a hand fisted in the shoulder of his coat.

"Stay awake," Porthos said, "Just stay awake 'Mis."

"Trying," Aramis gasped.

The owner of the house was an older gentleman. One glimpse of Aramis and he bustled them upstairs to a small bedroom with sunlight streaming through an open window. "It was my daughter's room," he spoke softly, a sadness in the words, "She wouldn't have minded. She had a heart that was true and kind before all else."

Porthos laid Aramis on the bed and panicked as he felt his friend go limp.

Then he realised his friend's gaze was locked on the windowsill where a clay vase held fresh-cut daisies. Porthos reached to take the vase away but Aramis caught his sleeve to stop him.

Athos burst into the room with water, linen, and everything else they would need.

Porthos climbed carefully over Aramis to sit on the bed between him and the wall, ready to hold him down as Athos prepared to carve the bullet out.

With Aramis's coat open and his shirt pulled up, Athos cleaned his hands and set to work, bringing a knife and a spoon to bear on the wound that was spilling blood across Aramis's heaving chest.

Aramis struggled to contain his cries and finally Porthos slid the seam of his glove between his friend's teeth. More than once Porthos watched Aramis's gaze latch onto the flowers in the window, and more than once Porthos found himself wishing his friend would just pass out already.

Athos managed to twist the ball free from between Aramis's ribs with one final grind of metal on bone and Aramis collapsed back limp and panting. His eyes roamed the ceiling, lost. A sheen of sweat glistening across his skin.

"Aramis?" Porthos asked, knowing his friend was still conscious.

Athos doused the wound in brandy and leaned over with folded cloth to stem the bleeding.

Aramis didn't show any sign of answering or that he'd heard him at all. His glassy eyes wandered; his breathing short and labored.

"He'll make himself worse. Calm him down if you can," Athos said, reaching to the foot of the bed to draw blankets across Aramis's shaking limbs.

"Aramis? Come on, stay with us. We're here, there's nothing to worry over." Porthos set a hand near his friend's heart. "We're right here 'Mis. Just calm down."

Aramis didn't respond, the pace of his heart quicker still.

Athos wiped the back of his hand across his forehead, his eyes coming up and stopping at something over Porthos's head. "Porthos," he nodded at the windowsill.

Porthos followed his gaze, "The flowers?"

"It's worth a try," Athos said.

Porthos reached up to pull a flower from the vase. Swallowing the ridiculousness of giving his friend a flower, he raised Aramis's hand and folded his long fingers around the stem. He set his friend's hand across his chest and prayed he hadn't just made things worse.

The marksman's next panicked breath caused his questing gaze to still. He drew another breath, more measured this time, and began to relax. The lines across his face loosened and a moment later his eyelids drifted closed.

Athos tipped his ear to Aramis's mouth and leaned away again with a small smile. "Sleeping," he sighed, "Finally."

Porthos sought his own assurance by the feel of Aramis's heart beneath his hand.

"So flowers then?" Athos asked.

Porthos nodded, "His mum wore daisies in her hair."

"It was likely the smell that reached him. Not one of my favorite smells, daisies. But comfort comes in many forms I suppose."

"Comfort…" Porthos grunted, "Huh, guess so."

TMTMTM

By the time d'Artagnan joined their ranks, Athos and Porthos had a handle on Aramis's moods to the point that they would know when it would make the most difference to leave a flower on his windowsill. Always Aramis accepted the gift without comment. Inevitably, his mood would lift or he would leave off in his pestering and they would know the symbolic embrace had done its work…


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** A tag of sorts to S1: episode 4 - The Good Soldier. This is the final one for this series, although I may decide add to it later.

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TMTMTM

When the memories of Savoy surfaced with the arrival of Marsac, a wedge of words drove between them.

"When it comes down to it," Porthos had said, "I'd rather be on Treville's side then on Marsac's."

"You may be content to do nothing. I'm not." Aramis replied and he walked away feeling clear in his chest that, for this, he was alone. Nobody leapt after him and he told himself he was ok with that.

When Marsac died by his bullet, Aramis found himself adrift in the rain. He made his peace with Treville, understanding as only a soldier could the shifting pain between duty and brotherhood. But still he was alone. He had chosen one side and it was populated only be the dead – he, the lone survivor. And he wondered if a part of his soul hadn't been left in that wood alongside of Marsac's.

The walk back to his quarters was strange; the exhaustion in his steps filling the role of doubt as he wondered if this was where he truly belonged. He didn't encounter Porthos or Athos in the barracks and his room was empty when he finally reached it. The cold and damp of the space seemed to slide down his throat and collect around his heart. He shucked his wet clothing and collapsed across his bed, more ready for sleep than he had felt in weeks.

He fell asleep and woke up in Savoy.

Three days later and he still hadn't slept through a full night.

Activities in the garrison had returned to normal, the four of them had settled back into each other's company though d'Artagnan was the only one amongst them who didn't see the cracks.

With sleep stretched thin, Aramis's mood darkened and his patience shortened, and those cracks grew in kind until he and Porthos found themselves glaring at each other across the table in a tavern one night. Athos glanced once between them and grabbed d'Artagnan by the shoulder to force the boy to his feet.

"I need some fresh air," he muttered and d'Artagnan turned to him in concern, following behind without question.

The sudden departure of their comrades didn't alter the nature of their glaring, nor did it loosen their tongues, and they sat like that for a long string of moments.

"Aramis, you've got to let it go," Porthos finally said.

"Let what go, exactly?" Aramis cut in, "Savoy? Marsac? Treville's involvement? Or the fact that you left me to deal with it on my own."

"Marsac was no longer the man you knew. You can't ask me to choose between a man like Treville and what Marsac had become. The answer would still be the same."

"This isn't about Marsac! Or Treville."

"Then what is it about," Porthos growled.

"Look, forget I said anything." Aramis set his hands on the table and leaned back.

"No Aramis, this isn't done."

"I'm perfectly happy to call it done."

Porthos reached over and wrapped his fingers around Aramis's wrist as he stood to leave.

"No. You aren't. And I'm not either."

Aramis sighed, his head tipping to shadow his eyes. "Then say what you have to say Porthos."

"I'm tryin', you're just not listening."

Aramis slid back into his seat, taking his hand back and crossing his arms, "Fine. What?"

"I've still got your back. I always will."

Aramis snorted, "But you didn't." He stood again, "I'm leaving Porthos."

Porthos gained his feet to block his way. "You want my apology? You have it. You'll have it a thousand times over if you'd accept it, but you can't can you? You're so wrapped up in that head of yours you won't even see what's right before your eyes."

"What are you talking about?"

Porthos reached into his coat and pulled out a crumpled daisy. He held it between them. "It was yours three days ago already," he growled.

 _Three days…_

Aramis took the flower from Porthos's hand feeling as if every eye in the tavern was on them in that moment. He swallowed. Realising that if he was thinking it then Porthos was likely burning under the weight of it. And sure enough, Porthos's complexion had darkened noticeably. The big man shifted and cleared his throat.

To think that things had gone bad enough that Porthos had resorted to giving him this, here, now, like this…

Aramis felt his lips twitch. And suddenly he was laughing, bent nearly double at the absurdity of two men spilling their hearts over a crumpled daisy, one that had lived past its prime after three days on a windowsill no less! Tears sprang to his eyes and he brushed them away with a finger. Porthos had a hand on his shoulder and Aramis felt suddenly right. This, this was home. This was where he belonged.

He tossed the wilted flower on the table and drew Porthos into a hug.

"I'm sorry Porthos, I should have known."

"Yeah, me too," Porthos sniffed.

TMTMTM

"What's with the flower?" d'Artagnan asked as they watched the two friends embrace from across the room.

Athos turned back to the bar, a smile tugging the corner of his lips as he lifted his cup – everything, all at once, right with the world.

"I'll tell you when you're older," he said.

D'Artagnan glared at him and Athos smirked.

...


End file.
